A nod, an acknowledgement of his assumptions, that repetition was the key, that committing the motions to muscle memory would lead him to success more often than failure. And so he accepted the adjustment to his posture with ease, then repeated the motion again and again and again, finding each execution performing better than the last, with more accuracy, more power, more sureness to his stride, despite the pain, the burning, the sweat already clinging to him.
Breathing deep, he rolled his shoulders as if to loosen them again as he resumed a more casual stance while watching the next demonstration, idly scratching at his forearm where skin flaked and peeled. He appreciated not only the guidance, but the expertise that the man wielded, seeing many years of practice, of dedication to the craft of war in every muscle and every movement. So he did his best to give every bit of attention he could, appreciating that this master would deign to train him, to gift with him tutelage, knowledge and guidance.
When it came his turn to mimic the stance, he did so as best he could, accepting any refinement Deimos might offer before going through with the motion, his 'blade' swinging towards the target, landing an impact on a similar path to the General's, if much lighter, not making a dent but certainly a resounding echo against the dummy. It would take much more than a single training session for his strength to come near to matching that of the Sword's, so he was satisfied for now to have mimicked the motion for the most part in accuracy if not strength just yet.
He repeated it, wincing every other strike as the burns tugged and pulled and itched, pausing only when the General might indicate he'd done enough of this exercise and to move on to the next.
Breathing deep, he rolled his shoulders as if to loosen them again as he resumed a more casual stance while watching the next demonstration, idly scratching at his forearm where skin flaked and peeled. He appreciated not only the guidance, but the expertise that the man wielded, seeing many years of practice, of dedication to the craft of war in every muscle and every movement. So he did his best to give every bit of attention he could, appreciating that this master would deign to train him, to gift with him tutelage, knowledge and guidance.
When it came his turn to mimic the stance, he did so as best he could, accepting any refinement Deimos might offer before going through with the motion, his 'blade' swinging towards the target, landing an impact on a similar path to the General's, if much lighter, not making a dent but certainly a resounding echo against the dummy. It would take much more than a single training session for his strength to come near to matching that of the Sword's, so he was satisfied for now to have mimicked the motion for the most part in accuracy if not strength just yet.
He repeated it, wincing every other strike as the burns tugged and pulled and itched, pausing only when the General might indicate he'd done enough of this exercise and to move on to the next.
